Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

Charles righted his clothes. His embarrassment and self-loathing warred with his desperate desire to stay.

One day. He lasted one goddamn day. The moment Warren was before him again, he’d lasted all of one minute. He was weak, pathetic. The soon-to-be-curate who just couldn’t stop sucking his best friend’s perfect cock.

They’d tried to keep things platonic. God, but they’d tried. Charles had to prove to himself that he could fulfill his calling, that he could resist temptation. He’d spent countless hours hearing from Uncle Selby how it was a sin, how they were damned, how the only way out was for Charles to flee from Finchley like Lot fleeing Sodom and Gomorrah.

When Charles was with Warren, everything felt…right. He breathed easier, he was happier, calmer. Christ, even his mind that always seemed to spin like a top could find a moment’s rest. Warren brought him peace. In Warren’s arms, he knew true contentment.

But it was impossible to live within the cage of another man’s arms. And the second his hold on Warren snapped, the chaos warred around him—broken thoughts, anxiety, debilitating fear. Who was Charles without Warren to ground him? He’d spent three long years trying to figure that out, and here was his easy answer.

Nothing. Charles was nothing without Warren.

And yet, what could two men ever share together? What kind of future could they possibly make? That was a bigger unanswerable question. It haunted him. It drove him to endless sleepless nights, lying alone in his bed, cock hard and aching for his dearest friend.

All these thoughts churned as Warren stood inches away, watching him, claiming all his air. The man’s presence was undeniable. He was all confidence and broad shoulders and that masculine, forest fresh scent that made Charles weak.

“Come to me tonight,” Warren said, breaking their silence.

Charles stilled, his hands on his scarf. Now that the heat of the moment was over, he was feeling the chill in the air, as well as that anxious urge to hide himself away.

There it is, he thought bitterly. That goddamn broken feeling. It crept in the moment Warren pulled away. And Warren always pulled away first—with his words, his actions. He was always keeping Charles at arms-length.

Can you really blame him?

He shrugged himself into his scarf, not replying to Warren or the voice.

“Charles,” Warren said again.

He shook his head, biting his bottom lip to keep from speaking.

Warren reached forward, brushing his calloused thumb over his mouth. “Don’t do that,” he growled.

The sound pierced Charles in the chest and made his cock twitch with eagerness. He loved the way Warren handled him, always giving him orders and expecting them to be obeyed. He glanced up, meeting Warren’s gaze.

“Come to me,” Warren said again.

Charles swallowed, slipping on his gloves last. Their moment was over. Reality was creeping in with every second Charles stood not in Warren’s arms. “I’m late,” he muttered. “I—the duke is waiting.”

Warren’s dark eyes burrowed down to the heart of him, seeing him like no other person ever had. Slowly, he stepped back.

Yes, please god, pull away. Leave me to my misery.

Warren jerked the door open. “Well, we can’t keep His Grace waiting. Can we?”

Charles followed the footman down the long hall towards the door he knew led into the duke’s office. He’d been here once or twice before for the odd thing—tagging along with Uncle Selby on a house call, borrowing a book from the late duke.

Well, not George. How did one refer to a duke who was no longer a duke? James was His Grace now. Charles supposed that dropped George down to Lord George. Perhaps he was still a viscount or a baronet. Charles made it a point to ask.

The footman opened the door, gesturing him inside.

“Bray, thank you for coming,” James called from behind his desk.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” he said, offering a perfunctory head tilt.

“None of that,” James muttered, his eyes on a piece of parchment as he finished off something. Setting the quill aside, he glanced up again. Charles tried to stand up a little taller under his sudden scrutiny.

James was a handsome man. He had the same energy as Warren—all confidence and steely purpose. But the duke lived the life of an aristocrat. No garish scars marred his face. And the only callouses on his hands came from long years of riding on the hunt and drafting important letters of business. It felt strange to stand before him now, remembering him as a lad of fifteen who threw walnuts and broke fences by recklessly jumping his father’s horses.

As if the duke was thinking the same thoughts, he smiled. “We grew up together, Bray. Just a pair of boys from Finchley. But look at us now.” He gestured at the empty chair across from him.

“You and Mr. Burke were always quite a few years older,” Charles replied, sitting in the offered chair. “David was closer in age to yourself, I believe.”

“Right. And how is David? Where is he now? India?”

“Seven years,” Charles replied. “The late duke paid for his officer’s commission.”

“I remember.” James nodded toward the door.

Charles glanced over his shoulder to see a footman approaching with a tray. Charles reached for a cup of tea with a murmur of thanks.

“And do you keep in touch?” said James, reaching for his own cup.

“We were never all that close,” he admitted. “He keeps in touch with my uncle enough to satisfy us both.”

“I know the feeling,” James replied. “If my brother wasn’t so fond of my wife, I’d never know if he was dead or alive. She’s the only one who can get a letter out of him. My mother has quite given up trying.”

“Where is he now, sir?”

James sighed, setting his tea aside. “France maybe…or Switzerland. Rosalie would know best, but even she only hears from him once a quarter if she’s lucky.”

They settled into a quiet as Charles waited for the duke to state his purpose.

“I’m sorry about last night,” James said at last.

“Wholly unnecessary—”

“It is necessary,” James replied. “Burke was being…well, Burke.”

Charles grinned. “I’m aware of his tendencies. Please believe me when I say I was not offended. Burke will have to try harder than that to put me off.”

“Good. Because I would hate for you to feel unwelcome here,” James replied. “In fact, that’s what I wanted to speak to you about.”

Charles sat forward, his tea forgotten.

“You said last night you’ve been offered a new position. Vicar of Bredbury, was it?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

James nodded, his brows narrowing in determination. “What if I could offer you a different position?”

“A different position?”

“Aye. We both know your uncle’s current state of health. He’s not fit enough to fulfill his duties. I’ve been lenient, and I will continue to be so,” he added gently. “Hoxley is covering most of your uncle’s sermons, but that’s not all a curate’s responsibilities. And now with the fire in Carrington, he’s needed there more than ever.”

Charles waited, heart in his throat.

“I’m hoping you might be interested in taking over your uncle’s position,” James said at last. “We can ease him into retirement now, and you can take over. I know Finchley is nothing near so grand as Bredbury,” he added. “But this is your home, Bray. You are known here. You’re respected here. That matters in your line of work. People show loyalty to insiders.”

Charles felt like his heart might race out of his chest. Return to Finchley permanently? Become curate? Live in his uncle’s house?

His uncle.

Goddamn it.

The only thing Uncle Selby had ever asked of him in the last fifteen years was that he leave and not come back. He was trying to protect Charles. And it helped, in a way, removing the choice. So long as Warren was in Finchley, he was a threat to Charles. A millstone. A temptation. Selby’s words, not Charles’s. Would he really risk staying now? Knowing it took Warren all of one minute to break his resolve and have him on his knees?

“I cannot accept, sir.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized he’d said them.

James narrowed his eyes at him. “Perhaps take some time to consider—”

“I don’t need time,” he replied, getting to his feet. No, this wasn’t happening. This couldn’t happen. Charles couldn’t accept a position to head the church in a town where Warren lived, where Warren would always be within easy reach.

The duke didn’t bother hiding his disappointment. “Can I dare ask why?”

Charles fidgeted, his gaze darting for the door. He’d not been excused. It was unpardonably rude that he was standing in the duke’s presence. “I…Bredbury is offering me a vicarage, sir. Here in Finchley, I would remain a curate. It is not a sound career move. Surely, you understand.”

There, good. That was a reasonable excuse. Perfectly acceptable.

“That’s easily remedied,” James replied. “A note from me sent to the archbishop with an offer of sponsorship would fix it. He won’t deny my request. Not if I’m offering to foot the bill. I should have done it already,” he added. “It’s a shame we won’t manage it in time for your uncle to claim the title.”

Well, shit.

His mind spun as he tried to come up with a new and better reason, even as his heart sang with excitement. He didn’t want to go to Bredbury. He was only going because the position was offered. Charles was far happier here in the south. He loved the pastoral nature of the southern English countryside. The slow living, the peace and quiet. And he loved Finchley. He wanted to stay.

But that was impossible…not unless he could somehow convince Warren to leave.

The duke waited for his response.

He cleared his throat. “That is a very generous offer, sir. I’m not sure I’m deserving…”

“You’re a good man, Bray,” James replied. “And I like good men. I need them around me. Now that I’m the duke, I have a vision for the future. I’m trying to surround myself with people who I can trust, people I can share this vision with, people who have the forward motion to pull with me, rather than against me. I see the same visionary thinking in you, Bray.”

How was it possible that Charles now felt even worse? The duke was being far too generous. If he knew the truth, if he knew why Charles had to refuse him, Charles would lose his good favor forever. He shifted in his chair. “I thank you, sir.”

James waited for him to say more, his mouth tipping into a deeper frown. “You thank me…but your answer is still no? I’m offering to make you a vicar here in Finchley. I’m asking you to serve with me for the good of the community that raised us both…and you refuse?”

Charles wanted to be anywhere else. He wanted to be anyone else. “I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

James sighed, getting to his feet. “We will say no more about it now. Take some time to think about the offer. Perhaps my timing was off. You have enough on your plate with Selby. We can discuss this again soon.”

“I’m so grateful to you, James. Truly, I—” He stuttered over himself. “I’m sorry, Norland—I didn’t—I meant ‘Your Grace’—”

“Please.” James held up a hand. “Call me James. I never stand on ceremony with friends. In fact, I prefer it.”

Oh, goddamn it.

Now he was calling Charles a friend. Charles fought the urge to groan with self-loathing.

“And whatever you decide, we will not fall out over this,” James added. “But take some time. Perhaps discuss it with your uncle. Seek his counsel.”

Mentioning Uncle Selby brought Charles to his senses. “Oh, that reminds me, sir. He’s asked that I assist with the families unhomed by the fire. He’d like me to take round some baskets. He said that perhaps the duchess might wish to assist…”

“Yes, I daresay she will,” James replied, following him around the desk towards the door. “Perhaps, given Her Grace’s current condition, would you consent to Lady Madeline’s help instead?”

Charles was still reeling from the duke’s offer. Hell, he was still reeling from Warren. Less than an hour ago he was on his knees for the man. Now here was the Duke of Norland, casually discussing the delivery of baskets. “I—of course, Your Grace.”

“Tell Mrs. Davies what you need, and she’ll see it done,” James replied.

The footman already had the door open, standing back to let Charles pass through.

“I will think about the offer,” Charles said, turning in the doorway. “I’m…things have been chaotic for me of late. But I’m that grateful that you would seek me out for this opportunity.”

James gave him a piercing look, as if he could peel back the layers and see down to the heart of him. Christ, it was unnerving. Warren had just the same uncanny ability to see him with more than eyes. Uncle Selby too. It made Charles feel like an open book—or more like a closed book forcibly opened by a pair of strong hands.

“My door is always open, Charles,” said James. “If you need someone to talk to…if you need a friend. I’ll ask you to keep an open mind and just mull it over. Besides, I have a feeling my offer will not be the last you receive.”

On that curious note, he gave Charles a nod, dismissing him.